Prisoner Of The Iron Tower - Prisoner of the Iron Tower Part 14
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Prisoner of the Iron Tower Part 14

"History shows us that too many rulers have stained their reigns with the blood of their enemies." Grey eyes, chill as a winter sky, scanned the silent courtroom. "What will it achieve if I take this young Clan Lord's life? Too much blood has been shed already in this conflict. Let the court record that I revoke the death sentence. Let it be known that Eugene of Tielen has begun his reign as Emperor with an act of mercy, of forgiveness."

One by one, the people in the crowded courtroom rose to their feet, applauding the Emperor's speech.

Gavril blinked.

"We have heard the evidence from a number of medical doctors. We have heard of the prisoner's episodes of madness in his cell, causing his jailers to restrain him to avoid injury to himself."

The judge nodded slowly.

"We conclude, therefore, that Gavril Nagarian is afflicted with a grave and incurable disorder of the mind. A danger to himself-and to others. We recommend that he be taken to an asylum, where he may be cared for in complete security until the end of his days."

To the end of his days? Locked away to rot in a lunatic asylum? What mercy was there in such a sentence? Till that moment, Gavril had managed to keep control of himself. But now he lunged toward Eugene, screaming aloud his fury. "I'm not not mad!" mad!"

His guards grabbed hold of him by the shackles, forcing him to his knees. But still he shouted out till his throat burned, twisting and struggling to escape their restraining hands.

"Don't do this to me, Eugene! I'd rather die. Kill me, but don't lock me away!"

One of the guards struck him, bringing him crashing down onto the polished boards of the courtroom floor. Rough hands restrained him, forcing him to stay down.

"Look at the wretched fellow," he heard Eugene say to one of his aides as they walked away. "Obviously quite insane. Let's trust our physicians will be able to calm his frenzy. . . ."

Footsteps. Coming nearer.

Gavril lay curled in on himself, numb with dread and despair. What new torment had his captors devised to enliven his last hours before they removed him to the lunatic asylum?

His body was marked with fresh bruises where they had manhandled him out of the courtroom. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw where the shackles had chafed away the skin. Yet the physical discomfort was nothing to his mental agony.

Was he insane? he insane?

It was true that there were whole days he could not recall since they arrested him weeks ago in Azhkendir, gaping blanks in his memory. But then, he had traveled blindfolded and shackled for much of the journey, first in a barred coach and then by sea, in the lightless bowels of a Tielen warship, so that he had lost all track of time.

The only certainty was that he was no longer a threat to Eugene. He had fought the Drakhaoul that possessed him, and he had won. But in ridding himself of the Drakhaoul, he had betrayed his people. They had looked to him to defend them-and he had destroyed the only means of defeating Eugene's alchymical weapons.

A key turned in the lock and the heavy door creaked open. Lanternlight illumined the cell, so bright that Gavril flung his hands over his eyes. Voices conferred in a language he gradually came to recognize as Tielen. They seemed to be arguing. One, strong and commanding, soon overruled the others.

The door clanged shut. Gavril slowly opened his eyes, peering warily through his fingers.

A tall man, lantern in hand, stood gazing down at him. The bright glow of the lanternlight revealed the red, puckered scars marring his face.

"Eugene?" Gavril whispered, lowering his hands.

"At least you're lucid enough to recognize me." Eugene spoke in the common tongue, with just the slightest trace of a Tielen accent. "After your outburst today, I feared you were beyond help."

"So you came to see the dangerous lunatic-alone."

Eugene held the lantern up close to Gavril's face. Gavril shied away, eyes stung by the brightness of the light.

"Linnaius was right," Eugene said, lowering the lantern. "You have rid yourself of your powers. Or-more accurately-you have rid yourself of the creature that made you so powerful."

"What does it matter to you? You're Emperor now, and I'm your prisoner."

"You could have taken the whole continent for yourself. You could have seared me and all my armies to ash. You had the power to do it, Gavril Nagarian. You You could have been emperor. And you threw that power away. I want to know why." could have been emperor. And you threw that power away. I want to know why."

"It was destroying me!"

"Surely there was some way you could have come to control the creature?" Eugene leaned closer. "Impose your will on it? Subdue it?"

"You're implying that I was not strong enough to master it?" Gavril said slowly. "And that another, less weak-willed, could have forced it to obey him?" He began to shake his head. "You have no idea what you are saying. It winds itself into your will, your consciousness, until you no longer know who is in control!"

"Tell me where it has gone, and I will see your sentence is greatly reduced. A year in confinement, little more."

"Why?" Gavril stared up at the Emperor. "Why is it so important for you to know? Don't you understand what I'm saying? Sooner or later, it destroys you. It refashions its host, body and mind, to resemble the being it once was."

"I see little evidence of that refashioning in you now." Eugene held the lantern close to Gavril's face, gazing searchingly into his eyes.

"There are still traces." Gavril held up his shackled hands. "Look at my nails. See those streaks of blue? And my hair-though your doctors have shorn most of it away"-he ran one hand ruefully over the short prison crop they had given him after clipping his cobalt-streaked locks-"for reasons of hygiene. But the signs are fading fast."

In a distant part of his mind he found himself wondering why he was talking to Eugene, revealing what little was left of his mystery. Had he said too much? Or had he said just enough to condemn himself to the asylum for life?

"You still have not answered my question." Eugene's eyes probed his, grey steel now, hard and determined. "Where did the creature go? I have evidence it passed east over Swanholm. But after that, its trail went cold."

"I severed the link between us. Don't you understand? I don't know where it went." Gavril forced himself to control the desperation in his voice. "It told me it would die without a Nagarian host to sustain it. For all I know, it's already dead."

Eugene stepped back from him.

"You fool," he said, his voice quiet, expressionless.

Suddenly Gavril's confused mind made a connection. He understood why Eugene had come in secret to interrogate him.

"So you you want to become Drakhaoul," he said, bitterness darkening his voice. "You have the whole continent of New Rossiya in your power; you have Astasia Orlova as your bride, and it's still not enough for you! Be thankful that the creature is dead. Be thankful that you don't have to endure the unnatural lusts and desires the creature imposes on its host-" want to become Drakhaoul," he said, bitterness darkening his voice. "You have the whole continent of New Rossiya in your power; you have Astasia Orlova as your bride, and it's still not enough for you! Be thankful that the creature is dead. Be thankful that you don't have to endure the unnatural lusts and desires the creature imposes on its host-"

"I," Eugene said coldly, "have had greater men than you silenced for such insolence. I have stripped their families of everything-even their name."

Gavril felt a sudden fear chill his heart. For one moment he had forgotten that this man was Emperor and could destroy the people he loved with a single word. He had endangered his mother, his household, his bodyguard . . . and his faithful Kiukiu. They might be far away from this dismal prison, but none would escape the Emperor's wrath.

He swallowed. "Forgive me, your highness. I forgot myself."

"Well. It's gone . . . and there's an end to it."

But Gavril heard no hint of resignation in Eugene's voice. He did not doubt that Eugene, no matter what he had said to him, would send his agents to all corners of his empire and beyond to trace the Drakhaoul.

Nothing would be left to chance.

Somewhere nearby water dripped, a monotonous, repetitive sound, regular as the ticking of an ancient clock. For some time now, Gavril had felt as if there were a great weight pressing on his chest, a jacket of iron slowly tightening, stifling his breathing.

The weight, he had begun to realize, was the burden of his own fear-fear for the future and the life he would not be allowed to live. Instead, an eternity of imprisonment stretched ahead, a living death. Slowly he closed his eyes . . . and found he was flying.

In the weeks of confinement he had almost forgotten what it was like to fly. Chill, pure air streamed past him, through him-cleansing all the petty concerns of the world far below.

A dark ocean, cold and black as ink, stretched beneath him now. He hurtled aimlessly onward, borne on a tumultuous stormwind of despair.

And now he felt a rawness at the core of his being, as if he had been wrenched in two and lost a vital part of himself. And this soul-wound was bleeding his life away.

Somewhere far off, a distant voice howled its grief aloud.

"I am weary of this world."

And something awoke within his brain. Livid spatters of light exploded across his vision. A horrible twisting, shuddering feeling gripped his whole body. He fell to the floor, limbs contorting.

"I want to go back to my own kind."

"H-help-"

Little slivers of light pulsed through his mind, and with each new pulse his body convulsed again.

"Prisoner's fitting!"

Men's voices began to shout close by. The cell door was flung open. Vaguely, through the electrical storm ravaging his brain, he saw boots, heard commands.

"Get restraints! Hurry!"

"He could bite his tongue off. Put this stick in his mouth."

Hands grabbed hold of him, clamping hold of his head, wrenching his jaws open, forcing in a wooden rule till he began to gag.

"Hold his arms."

"No, don't touch him yet. Not till he's calmed down-"

There's something in my head! He tried to tell them what was wrong, but the wooden rule pressed down on his tongue and only inarticulate, gargling sounds came out. He tried to tell them what was wrong, but the wooden rule pressed down on his tongue and only inarticulate, gargling sounds came out.

And just as suddenly as it had burst into life, the kernel of brightness in his mind died down. He went limp, unresisting.

"The fit's passing. Now's the moment, quick-"

The guards pinioned his arms behind his back, trussing him so that he could not move.

"Send for a strong sedative. We can't have him throwing a fit like this in the carriage."

One of the men went hurrying away. Another bent down and-none too gently-prised the wooden rule from Gavril's mouth.

"Not mad-" Gavril said in a gasp. "Tell the Emperor-it's still alive. I can hear it-in my head."

He saw the soldiers glance at one another.

"Humor him," whispered one.

"Of course we'll tell the Emperor."

"He'll-reward you-"

"Here's the sedative." One of the guards knelt beside Gavril. "Now then, Nagarian, this'll calm you down."

"No, no drugs!" Gavril twisted his head away. He must stay conscious. Once they sedated him, he would be unable to tell Eugene what he had experienced-and his last hope of reprieve would be gone. "I'm perfectly sane-"

"Get his mouth open. Hurry."

They thrust the rule back between his gritted teeth. The pain was almost unbearable, but still he fought them. One fetched a funnel and forced it into his mouth, pouring the sedative in till it trickled, cold and bitter as poison, down the back of his throat. Coughing, he tried to spit it out.

"This one's a fighter. Hold him down. It'll start to work soon."

They tugged out the funnel from between Gavril's clenched teeth.

"I'm not mad!" he cried with all the force of his lungs. "I'm- he cried with all the force of his lungs. "I'm-not-"

Already his tongue felt swollen, sluggish. The words sounded slurred. And the brightness of the lights was dimming as if a fine veil of mist were drifting through the cell. His limbs felt heavy, unwieldy. The faces of his guards seemed to be slowly floating away from him, their staring eyes like lanterns glimpsed through mist.

"See? I told you. Gave him enough to fell a horse. He'll be out of it for hours. By that time he'll be on his way to the asylum. . . ."

"Don't lock me away. Please don't lock me away. . . ." The words formed in his dulling brain like soap bubbles-and popped before he could speak them.

He was falling back now, falling slowly back into soft clouds.

Not mad . . .

Arnskammar Asylum for the Insane was armored to withstand the storm winds that frequently pounded the remote cliffs on which it stood. The local inhabitants nicknamed it the Iron Tower, for the stone from which it was built was veined with ore. When wet with rain or tidespray, its massive walls glistened with the dour, brown sheen of newly forged iron. It had originally been a fortress, one of two built by the Tielen princes to defend Arnskammar Point, the most southern promontory of Tielen.

In these more stable and enlightened times, the Tielen council had converted one of the fortresses into a secure hospital in which to house those distressing cases whose insanity could not be cured by conventional treatment. Also, wealthy and titled families had been known to pay for the confinement of difficult relatives whose scandalous behavior had proved an embarrassment. The government was rumored to house dangerous prisoners of state there too, those whose anarchic ideas would make them a danger to society.

It was to Arnskammar Asylum that the Emperor Eugene had sent a prisoner in a locked, barred carriage. The patient's identity was to be kept secret; he was referred to only as Number Twenty-One. All that was known about him was that he was not a Tielen by birth and that he had-in his madness-committed a terrible crime against the New Rossiyan Empire.

"The late Count Velemir once hinted to me, Eupraxia," said Eugene as he and Astasia's governess stood gazing at the betrothal portrait, "that the relationship between my wife and Gavril Nagarian was considerably more than that of patron and artist. . . ."

Eupraxia's eyes widened; he saw a deep flush spread across her face and throat.

"There was never any evidence of impropriety, your imperial highness," she said staunchly.

"I am not seeking to smear my wife's reputation. My sources, however, tell me that Gavril Nagarian was once thrown out of a court reception for attempting to kiss Astasia."

Little pearls of perspiration glistened on Eupraxia's brow; she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief.